Greetings to all of my readers (Really, there are currently only two of you, but I'm going to pretend that there are more of you just in case I gain some maybe) after a considerable hiatus of about a year with nearly no work being published, I have finally made the decision to begin posting actual fanfiction on this account/ remembered the existence of this account. Actually, this decision was mostly made after two of my friends (read my only two readers) found my account and started reading my stuff, so, naturally, I have to redeem my skill as a writer and actually post something current. Incidentally, after this has been published, I will be changing my username to quantumCellist, provided the name is available, in order to keep consistency with my ao3 account, tumblr, and... pretty much everything else that I use, really. And now, without further do, I present to you what I hope will be at the very least a somewhat decent Harry Potter fanfic.

It has been months since George Weasley has slept through the night: long months, punctuated by nothing more than the variation in the nightmares that plague him. Prior to these months he knew little of night mares beyond the occasional bad dream he had as a child. Nothing then had ever been anything like this, the unrelenting onslaught of fears and regrets that he didn't know had before now, the dreams that tear him from sleep until he is sitting bolt upright in bed with tears streaming down his face in a manner that he hadn't thought possible until now. No, these nightmares are different. They are the kind of dreams capable of bringing the strong to their knees and causing the strongest of minds to crumble into rubble and tears.

When they began, less than a week after the war had ended, after Fred had died and George had finally realized that he was really and truly gone, they were sharp, clear. They were not like most dreams, where the edges are fuzzy and the sounds are muffled, these were like watching a muggle movie, seeing the same scene over and over again in sharp relief. And it was always the same scene: in the castle, seeing Percy exchanging curses with the Death Eater's ministry pawn, him joking while doing so, Fred grinning like Christmas had come early despite the fact that they were fighting for their lives on a battlefield, the wall behind him exploding, shattering into rubble and ruins, and then Ron shaking Fred, and Fred not responding, still wearing the ghost of a laugh etched on his face.

At the time, George had thought that those were the worst. He had thought that nothing could be worse than watching his twin die night after night, seeing the image thrown into sharp relief, knowing that he could have done something, could have stopped it, but being unable to do so. Then the dreams began to slowly disintegrate, first the edges became fuzzy, which at the time seemed like a blessing. It would no longer seem as if he were living the moment over again, and he thought that was good. Then, soon, the dreams slowly became more disjointed, until all he saw were fuzzy images, muted sounds. And all he would see and hear were the blurred outlines of fired spells, the muffled sound of shouted curses, the stone wall exploding in a shower of gray cotton balls, and stick-figure people, and his stick-figure brother lying on the ground, unmoving.

These dreams are the worst, worse than ever the detailed, sharp flashback dreams could be, for these dreams strike him full of fear. These dreams strike him full of fear that he is forgetting his twin, for how could he ever remember how he lived if he can't even properly remember how he died? It is these dreams that make him wonder if he even truly, clearly remembers what Fred looked like. And in this way too, these dreams are the worst because they follow him into his waking consciousness, for when he begins to wonder what he remembers, he never fails to find his own reflection.

Everywhere he looks, whether in the form of windows or shiny pots or the silver kettle on the stove or the mirrors above the sinks in the bathrooms, there are mirrors. Everywhere he looks, he can see his reflection in something or other, and so, everywhere he looks, he can see Fred. He has long since ceased seeing his own reflection as his own, but rather as what he wishes that he could see looking back at him instead of his own reflection.

But what he sees is never quite good enough. The minute differences are there, the missing ear, the slightly different pattern of swirling freckles on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He looks almost... serious. The kind of serious that Fred never was.

George sees Fred everywhere he looks, but only from a distance. Whenever he comes close enough to see in detail, it becomes apparent that it is only his reflection, always his reflection.

So it is that on this day, two months exactly since his brothers death, George Weasley is standing in a bathroom in the Burrow, staring at his own reflection, trying to distinguish between what is Fred and what is himself, when Hermione knocks on the door.

"Are you done, George?"

He sighs, takes one last look at his reflection, and opens the door.

"Yeah. Morning, Hermione.

She looks at him closely, "Are you alright?"

He smiles, a pained, forced grin that looks more sad than it does anything else. "Aren't I always."

Hermione offers an understanding nod, and he walks past her and makes his way down to the lower levels of the Burrow. Normally, he would remain upstairs in his own room for as long as possible, but now that he has been seen by her, the others will wonder where he is. His mother would likely come looking for him, teary eyed and bearing unhelpful consolations.

Mrs. Weasley, ever since Fred's death has been prone to dissolving into puddles of tears at the smallest things. Chief among these things is seeing George, who had once been a part of a paired set, who seems awkward and small and insignificant and broken when he is alone. As such, he prefers to stay out of her path as much as possible. It is better, he thinks, to minimize the amount of pain that one causes to those around him.

Indeed, when George reaches the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley's eyes are already watery, and had been long before he walked in. She is bent over the stove, a determined expression on her face, cooking sausages and eggs in an old frying pan, waving her wand in complicated patterns. Behind her at the table sit Ron, Harry, and Ginny, playing a game of Exploding Snap. Ron is leaning over the table, brow furrowed, trying to decide on his next move, while Harry and Ginny are sitting side by side, laughing, hands intertwined beneath the table. George bites back a smile. If his mother turned around and caught them like this, the repercussions would be equally unimaginable and terrifying. Largely because of the fact that she had not been notified of the likelihood of having to prepare yet another wedding.

He sits down on the end of the table directly across from Harry and Ginny, with his back to Mrs. Weasley.

"Deal me in?"

"Sure. After Ron finishes his turn," says Ginny.

"I can wait."

He does, and he plays a rigorous game of Exploding Snap with them, of the sort that was played long ago in the Hogwarts Great Hall when he was in school, ages before it was turned into both a battlefield and a temporary morgue. Before long, as they are nearing the end of the game, a sizable audience, consisting of Hermione, Fleur, and the rest of the remaining Weasleys, has gathered around the table. George easily beats all three of them by the time Mrs. Weasley is finished with breakfast.

"I swear, if you four don't stop playing that game in my kitchen..." she shakes her head as if she is frustrated, but there is a rare smile on her face. The sheer normality of the situation is beautiful to her after watching her family be shattered by war.

Everyone gathers at the table, some sitting on extra chairs, and Fleur even perched on Bill's lap. They talk loudly as they eat, speaking of anything but the recent war. Despite having nearly nothing to talk about, they feel the need to fill the silence with speech, repairing the hole that Fred left in their family.

George is grateful for this silence. He need not say anything beyond cracking a few jokes now and then; he hasn't lost his sense of humour: it has become his cover. But when no one is looking, the mask slips, and he finds himself staring at his reflection in the mirror.

Harry Potter once told him about a mirror that he had found that showed the viewer his or her heart's desire. At the time, he had joked about it with Fred, imagining anything from seeing themselves as world famous beaters or pulling the perfect prank. Now, he thinks that if he found this mirror, he wouldn't even know it. It would look to him like any other mirror.